The old house was full of boxes. She and her family had been packing them over the weekend. Now a huge sea of cardboard washed over the place that once had held her most precious memories. Her parents had passed away. And she was packing up their home.
She looked at the battered black phone on the kitchen wall. On it were stickers — stickers with the doctor’s numbers. The police. The fire. Their favorite pizza parlor. And there were stickers with other important numbers, too. Like her numbers — All four of them since she had been out of college. Her cell phone was the one that was now not crossed out. She was from a different generation with her cell phone. Not her parents. Their landline tied them to the world. And to her. It was her safety line.
No longer would she be able to dial those familiar numbers. Like the time the elementary school nurse had called when she had the Chicken Pox. Or when her boyfriend had been mean to her and she needed to cry on her mom’s shoulder. Or when she was homesick in college. Then there was that time had the flat in the middle of the night. Dad to the rescue! Or the three times she went into labor.
No longer would she be able to dial those 10 numbers and hear the voices that brought her peace or help. No longer could she dial her parent’s phone number and hear their precious voices.
She sat on the stack of boxes for a few minutes and tried to soak it all in. A voice broke her out of her trance. “Everything is disconnected, ma’am. The final bill will be sent to your home. ” It was the phone guy. Those ten numbers, her connection to her parents for over 40 years, was now officially gone.
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